


Rain or Something Like It

by CupcakeGirlA



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, M/M, Rain, Thunderstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 07:02:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CupcakeGirlA/pseuds/CupcakeGirlA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles doesn’t like the rain. Derek likes how it washes away everything and makes it feel new and clean. When the rain threatens to keep Stiles up all night, irritated and cranky, Derek does his best to distract him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain or Something Like It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [breenwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breenwolf/gifts).



> Thank you to the AMAZING Beth aka foreverblue_navy, for the beta and the beautiful graphics. She always pulls through. Everyone go tell her on tumblr how great she is!

 

 

It isn't rain that Stiles hates. It’s the way it makes him feel. Keeping him all bottled up and stuck inside. His whole room turns dark and grey and closed in. The sound of the rain on the roof is distracting, irritating him when he tries to sleep, or to study. It has nothing whatsoever to do with standing in the rain for what felt like hours the day they buried his mother.

 

For Derek the rain is soothing. It washes away dirt and grime, settles ash, and makes the forest smell fresh and green and alive. Being wet isn’t annoying when you can run yourself dry afterward. He loves the consistency of rain. No matter where he went after leaving Beacon Hills, rain followed. He heard it in Seattle, in Chicago, in New York.  It was the same everywhere, even when it varied it was somehow still the same. It was hard and driving or slow and soft. Sometimes frozen sometimes so warm he would sit in it for hours trying to rinse himself clean.

 

The first time it rains After, Stiles is tucked up in bed behind Derek, forehead pressed between Derek’s shoulder blades, mouth hot and moist against the triskele tattoo on Derek’s upper back. It’s dark, the middle of the night, when there’s a clap of thunder and the rain starts pounding. Stiles jumps in reaction, Derek startling awake at the movement. Stiles groans, forehead scrunching up, as he turns his head into the bed, the side of his face pressing into Derek’s shoulder.

 

“Damn it, I hate rain,” he mumbles, arms tightening around Derek’s waist. Derek frowns.

 

“I love the rain,” he replies, voice sleepy. Stiles hand flexes against his belly and Derek covers it with his own, folding their fingers together and squeezing. Stiles squeezes back, and lifts his head to breathe, wiggling up the bed to put his head back on his pillow. He noses the back of Derek’s head.

 

“It’s annoying,” he complains, blinking owlishly at the alarm clock. “And fuck, I’ve got class in the morning. Now I’ll never get back to sleep.” Derek turns to lay flat on his back, staring up at the shadows on the ceiling, watching them move and change with the movement of the tree outside blowing in the wind. It looks like a dance, like a choreographed routine set to the sounds of the storm. 

 

“You know most people find the sound of rain relaxing,” he says quietly. Stiles grumps, pressing closer and burying his face in Derek’s neck. It makes Derek smile up at the shadows, knowing Stiles doesn’t understand exactly what the action means to a werewolf. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tell him, because he doesn’t want Stiles to stop.

 

“Haven’t you noticed that I’m not like most people,” Stiles says, his lips moving against Derek’s carotid. He opens his mouth and nips, just a little, teasing. Derek’s hard in seconds, the surge of blood heading south so fast it makes his hips move involuntarily.

 

“Not necessarily a bad thing,” Derek says, swallowing thickly. He releases Stiles hand, rolling toward him in their too small bed. Their legs tangle again easily. He studies Stiles face, seeing him clearly even in the darkness. Stiles smiles at the compliment, his eyes sleepy, and face sleep flushed, hair tangled. He reaches up to press one hand to the side of Stiles head, fingers combing through the locks there. “But let’s see if I can change your mind,” Derek suggests. He slides his hand back and around to cradle the back of Stiles’ skull pulling his head closer to give him a kiss. It’s open and lush and sweet at this time of night. Stiles pushes forward to kiss him back.

 

The kiss goes on and on, slow and careful, and sleepy. Stiles hums, breaking away to breathe. His lips are red, swollen, his eyes half-lidded.

 

“You aren’t going to get me to like the rain,” he protests weakly, rocking his hips forward to press into Derek’s erection hard and eager. “Your dick isn’t that magical.” Derek smooths one hand down the length of Stiles’ bare back, tracing the long pale line of it with knowing fingers.

 

“I’m not trying to get you to like the rain all the time,” Derek replies, ignoring the jibe, his teeth nipping at the side of Stiles’ jaw. Stiles gasps, mouth falling open in a low moan. He opens his eyes, wide and suddenly intense. He brings Derek’s mouth back to his, the kiss returning hungry and wanting. Eager. It’s almost a minute later before Derek pulls back to let Stiles breath. “Just trying to get you to like rain when you’re in bed with me,” he explains. There’s another crash of thunder, the wind shifting so that the rain hits the window at a hard sideways angle. Stiles flinches against him, hunkering in closer, and tugging the blanket up over their heads.

 

It’s overly warm under the blankets, all their body heat trapped in the heavy air between them. The scent of their arousal, sweat and pre-come and want, is nearly overwhelming. It makes Derek’s head rush. He presses Stiles over onto his back, rolling to fit himself between Stiles open thighs. He’s careful to keep the comforter over them, blocking out the moonlight and the flashes of lightning occasionally filling the room.

 

Here in their little cave, it’s just them. In here, the rest of the world seems far away and foreign. It’s easier to focus on just the feel and taste and sound of each other.

 

Derek’s cock presses eagerly against Stiles’, their hips and bellies pressed together tightly, sweat and sticky pre-come making them wet and slick. It only takes one long slide of hips, and Stiles is arching under him, moaning and clutching at Derek’s shoulders.

 

“You’re not fucking me during a thunderstorm, Derek,” Stiles says, panting every few words, and grinding his hips up against Derek’s.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Derek replies, pecking him once right on the mouth, and then starting to slide down. The journey South starts at the long column of Stiles’ throat, before detouring down and outward to each prominent sharp collarbone. He keeps going, continuing down; tracing a path from nipples to navel. There Derek’s mouth follows the trail of hair below Stiles’ belly button down to his crotch. Here the smell is even more intense, musky and salty, but 100% undiluted Stiles. Derek takes deep breaths, sucking it into his lungs. He wants to roll around in this scent, soak it up into his pours, and watch Scott’s nose twitch the next time he sees them together. He wants to reek of Stiles, of Stiles like this.

 

The first swipe of tongue on cock has Stiles’ hips arching up off the bed and letting out a harsh almost pained sound. Derek rides out the movement, reaching for Stiles’ hips to keep them still, and then doing it again, tongue making a rough wet stripe up Stiles’ dick. Stiles reaches for Derek, one hand tightening in Derek’s hair, the other reaching down to grip the sheets.

 

“Derek? Fuck. Oh shit. Derek, please!” he pleads. Derek smile; taking the time to roll the flavor of Stiles around in his mouth before taking him deep. The sound Stiles makes is guttural, almost inhuman, shocked and needy. Derek’s dick throbs with pained want in reaction.

 

Stiles squirms under him panting and writhing. Derek sucks, hard, almost too hard, and Stiles cries out again, body tensing, and bowing off the bed, hips pressing up into Derek’s hands and mouth, limbs flailing.

 

Derek’s getting good at this. Experienced with Stiles in a way he’s never gotten to be with any other sexual partner. He’s learning the planes and dips of Stiles body. The sensitive spots and unconscious reactions a certain kind of touch or the hint of teeth can cause in him. So he knows that if he grips the base of Stiles dick, just so, and squeezes it in just the right way, that if he pulls back with his mouth and licks firm and fast across the sensitive head, then swallows him down quick, throat working tight, that Stiles will come, head thrown back and face flushed and sweaty. His body will arch up into Derek’s, his mouth open and keening uncontrollably.

 

Stiles during sex is always a sensory experience for Derek. But the space under the blanket almost explodes with overwhelming sensation. The smell of Stiles sweat, the sound of his quick heart rate, and moaning cries, the taste of skin and come and musk coating Derek’s mouth. Derek grins as Stiles tenses.

 

He predicts what happens perfectly, only Stiles’ flinging the blanket off to gasp for the cool oxygen rich air of the bedroom is unplanned. In the exact moment Stiles comes, there’s a double flash of lightning, cold white light filling the room and showing Derek Stiles’ face so clearly it feels like daylight, before it’s gone again, followed by a low rumbling clap of thunder echoing from far away, helping to muffle the sound of Stiles’ cry.   

 

He goes plaint afterward, his heart rate and breathing slowing, as his eyes drift closed. The sound of the rain gentles, tapering off to nothing, the summer thunderstorm gone as quickly as it started.

 

Derek likes him like this, pliable and easy. He rolls him onto his side, sliding up behind him, and wrapping arms around him as he waits through the foggy after effects. Stiles presses back, too tired in the immediate aftermath to move much on his own accord. He’s relaxed and loose and smiling. Derek tugs him closer, moving and shifting until they fit together perfectly, the hard length of his cock sliding and pressing up between Stiles’ thighs.

 

Stiles makes an inarticulate sleepy sound, squeezing his thighs together like a vice, and making Derek moan a little desperately in reaction.

“Gonna make you come. And then I’m gonna sleep, k?” Stiles murmurs, sounding exhausted and half asleep already. He gropes with one hand to find Derek’s , and then he relaxes his thighs, shifting one leg backward more toward Derek and then tensing them again, the changed angle making Derek pant against the back of Stiles’ neck in pained pleasure. His hand grips Stiles’ flexing a little desperately. Stiles wiggles his hips once, unconsciously, and then goes limp. Derek, hard and eager and wanting, knows instantly what’s happened. The little choked off snore that escapes Stiles throat a moment later confirming it better than anything else could. Derek (generally) loves and hates that sound. Loves that it means Stiles is asleep, completely and genuinely, having fallen into the kind of sleep that means safe and secure and comfortable. Derek’s always a little humbled to hear it. But it’s also a painful reminder of the deviated septum that causes it, and the unfortunate incident that had led to the injury, a broken nose that Derek was at least in part to blame for.

 

Nevertheless that noise means only one thing. Stiles has fallen asleep. He fights not to roll his eyes, his dick hard and aching, still tucked between Stiles’ firm thighs.

 

A selfish part of Derek wants to shake Stiles awake, to roll him over and fuck him into a sweaty quivering heap of pale skin and freckles. But he resists, Stiles has class in the morning, and the storm outside is slowing enough to be barely audible. He doesn’t dare wake Stiles up. Not now, not for such selfish reasons. Derek has made do without before. Going to sleep with a hard on won’t kill him.

 

Instead he stares at the shadows still dancing on the ceiling, watching for the flickering of lightning to fill the room and counting steadily until he hears the answering roll of distant and retreating thunder. Eventually his arousal fades and his erection goes away, but he stays tucked up against Stiles’ back, hand clutched tightly in Stiles’, and plots all the ways he’ll make Stiles pay for leaving him hard like this sometime in the coming days.

 

Fair is fair after all.

 

He falls asleep and dreams of running through the rain after Stiles, of chasing him around a field near the old house, the rain coming down steady but warm, and free of the static and clash of thunder and lightning. He imagines tackling a laughing Stiles down into the wet grass, of rainwater kisses and muddy clothes, and showing him how nice rain can feel on bare skin when there’s someone else there to keep you warm.

 

He wakes in the morning to clear blue skies, and Stiles wrapped around him like an octopus, face buried in his throat, their arms and legs so tangled together he can barely tell whose limbs are whose. Derek wonders idly if Stiles resistance to rain would extend to shower sex.

 

 

 


End file.
